They were ascending a hill, and the horse went slowly. Ahead of them was a buggy without a top. In the buggy were a man and a woman. The woman had an umbrella over her, and a child in her arms. "It's Mary Flippin and her father. See if you can't overtake them, Jefferson. I want you to see Fiddle Flippin, Randy." "Who is Fiddle Flippin?" "Mary's little girl. Mary is a war bride. She was in Petersburg teaching school when the war broke out, and she married a man named Branch. Then she came home--and she called the baby Fidelity." "I hope he was a good husband." "Nobody has seen him, he was ordered away at once. But she is very proud of him. And the baby is a darling. Just beginning to walk and talk." "Stop a minute, Jefferson, while I speak to them." Mr. Flippin pulled up his fat horse. He was black-haired, ruddy, and wide of girth. "Well, well," he said, with a big laugh, "it is cert'n'y good to see you." Mary Flippin was slender and delicate and her eyes were blue. Her hair was thick and dark. There was Scotch-Irish blood in the Flippins, and Mary's charm was in that of duskiness of hair and blueness of eye. "Oh, Randy Paine," she said, with her cheeks flaming, "when did you get back?" "Ten minutes ago. Mary, if you'll hand me that corking kid, I'll kiss her." Fiddle was handed over. She was rosy and round with her mother's blue eyes. She wore a little buttoned hat of white pique, with strings tied under her chin. "So," said Randy, after a moist kiss, "you are Fiddle-dee-dee?" "Ess----" "Who gave you that name?" "It is her own way of saying Fidelity," Mary explained. "Isn't she rather young to say anything?" "Oh, Randy, she's a year and a half," Becky protested. "Your mother says that you talked in your cradle." Randy laughed, "Oh, if you listen to Mother----" "I'm glad you're in time for the Horse Show," Mr. Flippin interposed, "I've got a couple of prize hawgs--an' when you see them, you'll say they ain't anything like them on the other side." "Oh, Father----" "Well, they ain't. I reckon Virginia's good enough for you to come back to, ain't it, Mr. Randy----?" "It is good enough for me to stay in now that I'm here." "So you're back for good?" "Yes." "Well, we're mighty glad to have you." Fiddle Flippin, dancing and doubling up on Randy's knee like a very soft doll, suddenly held out her arms to her mother. As Mary leaned forward to take her, Randy was aware of the change in her. In the old days Mary had been a gay little thing, with an impertinent tongue. She was not gay now. She was a Madonna, tender-eyed, brooding over her child. "She has changed a lot," Randy said, as they drove on. "Why shouldn't she change?" Becky demanded. "Wouldn't any woman change if she had loved a man and had let him go to France?" IV It was still raining hard when the surrey stopped at a high and rusty iron gate flanked by brick pillars overgrown with Virginia creeper.